Division
by Ingenious Insomniac
Summary: Family? Romance? Long division? Not my division. (Lestrade centric, with Molly x Lestrade)
1. Divorce

**Chapter 1**

_**Divorce**_

* * *

**T**he Lestrade family deteriorated at Christmastime. Ella noticed, on the drive to Dorset and during the party with her family, that Greg was acting strange. Disconnected, if you will.

She searched her mind for whatever it could be. There was that twinge of doubting fear that brought up the flag, wondering if her husband knew about her boyfriend. The truth was, it was unlikely at best. Greg was never home, after all, he couldn't possibly catch her. Besides, he was a lot of things, but perceptive wasn't one of them. There wasn't really anything going on with his work at the moment, as far as she knew, perhaps paperwork had him knackered. Then again, maybe he somehow found out about Heather's new habit. She had kept it from Greg when she first found their eldest daughter was spending her pocket money on fags. She had taken it upon herself to talk to Heather about it. At first, the thirteen-year-old insisted that she only wanted to try it, to get it over with, and Ella had allowed it. It was apparent that Heather had not stopped, but attributing it to peer pressure, her absentee father, and typical teenage rebellion, Ella did her best to forget about it. But, she knew Greg would not see it that way. He would puff up with air, ears turning red, and talk about the negative and addictive effects – all the while wearing a nicotine patch, the hypocrite.

She tried not to let it bother her, after all, her husband _was _an extremely busy man. Though, ironically, where that thought ought to have brought understanding and perspective into the relationship, it just made her resent him. One might think that being married to a Detective Inspector, but in reality it was just lonely.

Not that she didn't care about Greg anymore – she did. She really did. It was only that, those days, it seemed more like some sort of stability arrangement – as though they were simply two friends who married to keep one in the country. Though, lately, with Greg away more and more, it didn't even seem like that.

Perhaps that was why she had found solace elsewhere. Jack, her daughters' P.E teacher, had seemed to come right out of a dream. He was young, strong, and seemed to know both Heather and Paige better than Greg ever could. Not to mention he seemed to genuinely care about Ella, her wants, her needs – he made her feel adequate as a woman and a lover. Which was more than Greg ever did. Jack would never stay late at the office, or miss Christmas Eve with his family. And most certainly, Jack would be engaged at a family Christmas party, chatting with in-laws and actually watching the girls open their presents. Unlike Greg, who seemed to be rather glassed over the entire day.

She waited until that night, however, to speak to her husband about it. He was leaning back on the pillows, one finger absent-mindedly rubbing a temple, reading something on the e-reader Heather and their youngest, Paige, had bought him for Christmas.

"All right, Greg?" Ella asked, rubbing lotion into her winter-dried hands and climbing in next to him.

"Er, what?" Greg said abruptly, looking up from the screen.

Ella smiled slightly. "Is anything wrong?"

Greg sighed slightly, switching off the e-reader. He sad up and began twisting the ring on his left hand.

"You're going to chafe if you do that." Ella continued to smile, in a rather good mood from the gingerbread and company of her own siblings and parents. In fact, if not for Greg's soberness the entire evening, it might have been Ella's favourite Christmas to date.

"Tell me more about the P.E teacher."

Ella's blood froze in her veins. "Wh—what?"

Greg sighed loudly. "I thought we had it sorted, yeah? No more lies. No more cheating. You said we could make it work. Last week, wasn't it?"

"I don't expect you to understand," Ella said, trying to keep her volume low. "Having to work, make sure the girls get to school and practices and recitals, making dinner every night – not even knowing if you'll come home! I'm the one who had to explain to Paige why you couldn't go to her ballet recital – and why not to bother you with it when you come home. You're never home! It doesn't even seem like you're a part of this family. Good Lord, Greg, we haven't even had sex in months!"

"You're blaming _me_ for your affair?"

"Well, I'm already living like a single mum. Might as well get the benefits."

Blinking angrily, Greg stood up abruptly and pulled on his jeans from earlier over his boxer shorts.

"Greg!" Ella sat up higher. "Before you just run away, like you do with _everything, _shouldn't we talk about this? Get it sorted?"

Shrugging on a shirt, Greg fumbled with the buttons, too furious to match them with the right hole. Deciding it was futile, he left it open, and threw his toiletries into his rucksack and swung it over his shoulder. "No. Not really."

"Where are you _going_?" She asked, watching him cross to the door.

"Home." Greg said angrily, opening the door. Then, he turned back to her. "Oh, and Ella? I want a divorce."

* * *

For the next month or so, Gregory Lestrade's life was turned upside down. He'd been with Ella for nearly thirty years. It felt odd, out of place, to go on holiday without her or the girls, to go looking for flats without her, to go grocery shopping alone. It was awfully quiet in the evenings, in his own flat, without Heather practicing piano all the time and kicking her damn football inside the house without permission, and without Paige's constant whining about not understanding long division (a plight he understood quite well). He missed his daughters, despite the fact that he realised he might actually see them more now that custody was limited and pre-arranged. He thought it would be unfair, inhuman, to say that he didn't miss Ella. But, the truth was, he found it difficult to. She had become rather unbearable towards the end. It was simply strange, unknown. His life would fall into a pattern soon enough though, he knew. He just had to wait for it to establish itself.

Things seemed to be looking up for a while, he found a nice flat for a reasonable rent fee. It had an open space which doubled as a kitchen and a den. He managed to furnish it with an old secondhand sofa, a recliner, and a new, large telly. There was no dining table, though Lestrade rarely ate at home anyhow, and when he did, he ate on the tea table. The flat had bedrooms for both Heather and Paige, and while there was no master suite, Lestrade did find his own room rather cozy. His flat was simple and mostly without decoration – there were photographs of Heather and Paige under the television, on either side of a book-shelf.

No longer in a nearly-paid-for house on the outskirts of London, but three floors up in a complex, Lestrade found his life stunningly different than it had been before. He couldn't help but find a sort of optimism welling up inside him. Perhaps the way his life was now would wind up to be a good thing – after all, the possibilities were endless.

One Wednesday, perhaps a week after renting his new flat, Lestrade was carrying in a fairly high pile of Thai takeaway blocking his vision, when he bumped rather harshly into another person, coming through the front doors of the building.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," The second party said instantly, in a mousy, girlish, and incredibly familiar voice.

"Molly?" Lestrade asked, fumbling with the boxes of takeaway, to allow them not to fall over the ground.

He shifted the boxes in his arms so as to see her. Indeed, there she was, Molly Hooper, the slender, shy forensic pathologist who cleaned up so nicely at John and Sherlock's Christmas party.

"Greg? What are you doing here?" Molly's timbre went up slightly.

Handing her a box of noodles, he nodded upwards. "I live on the third floor."

"Of this building?" She paused. "Here, let me help you carry that up."

He nodded, murmured his thanks and attempted to balance the takeaway boxes in one arm so as to find his bloody keys.

"Oh. I'm right under you, then." She instantly blanched, realising the possibly double entendre. "Oh, God."

Lestrade smiled, pushing the door open. "I know what you meant."

"So," Molly asked a flight of stairs later. "If you don't mind me asking…oh, never mind. It's rude."

"No, go on."

Sighing nervously, as in her own way, Molly asked, "What are you doing _here_? It's just…I…I thought that you lived outside of town."

"Right," Lestrade said, clearing his throat. He hadn't really discussed his personal life that much with colleagues. Though whether or not Molly was a true colleague was a gray area. His work often took him to the morgue, but they didn't work together that often. Either way, he hadn't even mentioned it to Donovan or Anderson. As far as everyone else was concerned, he and Ella were still together. "Well, Ella and I are signing the paperwork next week to finalise the divorce."

Over the mountain of boxes, Lestrade could've sworn he saw Molly blush an extremely deep red for her pale complexion. "Oh. I am terribly sorry. I shouldn't have asked. It's really none of my business, isn't it?"

"It's all right. I needed some help carrying up all this takeaway anyhow, right?"

Molly nodded, and then added in softly, "Are you having…friends over?"

To this, Lestrade laughed as he shook his head. A workaholic like himself did not have too much time for friends, didn't he?

"I've got my daughters, Heather and Paige, tonight," Lestrade explained. "I'm not sure if they've ever had Thai before, but the restaurant was on my way home. So, I got a bit of everything, hoping they'll find something they like."

"I see."

Reaching the third floor, Lestrade nodded. Inwardly, he added, "At least I've got this evening off, and nobody wound up dead. If that happens again, I might as well lose all custody."

Ella was pushing for nearly full custody of the girls. The main concern was the extensive hours Lestrade worked. At thirteen, Heather was old enough to be alone later in the night, but ten-year-old Paige was not. So, for six months, he had them Wednesday night through Thursday morning, and every other weekend. He was expected to be home quite often for them. Unfortunately, that was a rather unrealistic expectation.

"Are you all right?" Molly put in, throwing Lestrade back into the moment. They'd been standing in front of his door for several seconds now, and he hadn't even begun to search for his key.

"Yeah." Lestrade shook his head, opening the door and turning to take the boxes back from Molly. "Got a bit on my mind, is all."

Molly turned, beginning to leave, but then she turned back on herself. "It…it can't be easy." She said softly. "If…if you need me…for anything…you can…well, you know where to find me."

"Thanks, Molls." Lestrade said, smiling at the younger woman, noticing for the first time in his life that her eyes were brown. "I'll remember that."

Truthfully, he wasn't even sure if he meant whatever it was she just said, or if he meant that he'd remember her eye colour.

She smiled slightly, and turned away, beginning to descend down the staircase. Lestrade waited for the top of her head to disappear underneath the floor before turning back and walking into his own flat.

* * *

The takeaway was cold by the time Ella pulled up next to the building, buzzed him to announce their presence and walked the girls up the stairs, an hour and a half late. She stepped through the threshold, and instantly crinkled her nose.

"How's unpacking going, Greg?" She asked, looking around at the boxes shoved into corners and secondhand furniture tastelessly assembled in the room.

"You're late," Lestrade said, cutting greetings.

Ella lowered her brows. "Of course. You didn't expect me to pull Heather out of her game early just to get her on time, did you?"

"Heather had a game?" Lestrade said, eyes instantly on his oldest daughter, dressed in full football uniform, still in cleats and shin-guards.

"Yes." Ella said shortly. "I actually expected you to come to just take her and Paige here on your own."

"She never told me."

"Yes, I did." Heather grumbled, passing her father abruptly and shutting the door to her room with a little too much force.

"Wait. Now hang on, young lady—"

"Just let her go." Ella sighed. "You know, Greg, you actually have to _try _to get them to like you. It's not automatically programmed in – especially since they don't live with you."

With this, she gave Paige a quick hug and a kiss, told her she'd see her after school tomorrow, and promptly slammed the door behind her.

Lestrade shook his head slightly, and then turned to his youngest daughter. Putting his hands together, he said, "Well, since you're late, we might have to nuke it a bit. But I've got takeaway."

Paige looked up at her father with big gray eyes, her eyebrows furrowed slightly as she put her hands on her hips. "_Again?" _

Sighing from exasperation, Lestrade shook his head. "Great to see you too, girls."

An hour passed. It had taken some serious effort, but eventually, Paige managed to eat, and even enjoy her curry, although she maintained that it was a bit too spicy. Then she sprawled out in front of the telly and began delving into long division.

With Paige taken care of, Lestrade spooned some rice and curry onto a plate, along with something that looked like noodles covered in sauce, nuked it, and then knocked on Heather's door.

"Go away." She said sharply.

"Brought you dinner."

"I'm not hungry."

"Heather," Lestrade said, the same annoyance welling up in him that normally occurred in conversations with Sherlock. "If you don't eat now, you'll have to wait until breakfast."

"Didn't I tell you I'm not hungry?"

Sighing audibly, Lestrade backed away from Heather's door and began packing up the takeaway back into the original Styrofoam containers, and placed them back into the refrigerator.

Cracking open a beer, Lestrade shook his head solemnly and walked over to the sofa, whereupon he quickly sunk back into the cushions. He wanted to turn on the telly, but Paige was still working on homework. Thus, he lifted open his laptop, hoping to find something to busy himself with. Instead, he promptly found his mind swarming.

As much as he hated to admit it, he did not really know the best way to be a father. He'd always been so busy, it had always been Ella who had taken care of them during the day, and who dealt with discipline. Sure, he'd given a few fatherly lectures through the years, but somehow, they never seemed to stick. Yet, parenting had to be something of a learned skill. After all, so many people did it. He'd have to learn – he did not want to be stuck with limiting visitation rights. He was their father, dammit. Maybe not the best one in the world, but the only one they had.

He must have had a rather troubling look on his face, for Paige stood up in front of him. "Dad?" She said, "I didn't mean to be rude about the takeaway. Actually I wound up liking it. So I'm sorry for how I acted at first."

Lestrade smiled at his youngest daughter. "Thank you, Paige."

Paige grinned and let her eyes slide to his laptop. "Do you suppose I could get on in a bit? I need to feed my Webkin."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**I wanted to attempt a Molly x Lestrade story that takes a little bit of a different perspective than most people take this. This won't be solely Molly x Lestrade, and mostly Lestrade centric. Because…well…he's a sex kitten. **

**So, I hope you enjoyed. Please leave a review. **

**And, well, let me know what you want. This story could swing two ways. A: Just a short family drama sort of thing. Limited Sherlock, I'm afraid. Or B: With a whole mystery and crime involved, too, for our favourite consulting detective solving it as a subplot. **

** - Ingenious Insomniac **


	2. Dinner with You

**Chapter 2**

**Dinner with You**

* * *

By the time Lestrade came trudging through the front door of the flat, the girls were already settled in across the city with their mother. It might have been a relief to have the flat away from the sharp attitude of his eldest daughter; after all, it hadn't exactly been an easy morning. Heather had refused breakfast, yelled harshly though the door whenever he tried to get her up, and wound up running down the three flights of stairs in order not to miss the bus. He'd yelled back, actually, quite a bit. But since he wouldn't see her again until Saturday, any threats were therefore rendered moot.

However, a few hours of work had somehow managed to lift his moods. London had been rather quiet lately, there were a few break-ins as of late, but that wasn't his division, so it was a few hours of mindless paperwork to numb his mind away from the resentment Heather was giving him and the stress of the custody battle. Mindless, monotonous – it was just what he needed.

But, once he crossed the threshold into his flat, he found himself overcome with a strange feeling tugging inside his chest. It almost felt hollow. There were still traces of his daughters' presence in the flat – Paige's breakfast dishes still laid on the bottom of the sink, the telly automatically flicked on to CBBC, Heather's cleats lay haphazardly beside the recliner, and there were crayons on the tea-table from where Paige had done her art homework the night before. Still, the knowledge that he was the only one currently occupying the space, it made him feel rather lonely. Particularly in light of what had happened on his way home.

He hadn't felt like taking a cab, he'd been sitting most of the day, and the urge to stretch his legs had been too good to resist. Then, well, he wished he had taken the cab. Standing in line to what had once been his favourite bakery, was Ella and what's-his-name. Lestrade stopped in the middle of the walk. He didn't mean to stare, but it felt awful. It was one thing to have Sherlock rudely inform him of Ella's infidelity. It was another entirely to see it for himself. To see his wife—ex-wife on Friday – with someone else made him feel like somebody had stabbed him in the stomach. He wasn't even sure if he had any romantic feelings to Ella anymore, but still – it _hurt. _

Not meaning to stare, he couldn't help but look. Ella had a look on her face very similar to one she gave him in their younger years—and as a side-effect, she seemed younger too. Less troubled. He hated to think that it was because he wasn't in her life any more. And, as for what's-his-name? One didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out this man had more time, charisma, and a much stronger libido than he did. Just seeing the way they were standing so close, with his arms around her, the kiss he gave her on the neck in the middle of the street, it was sobering.

This encounter, accompanied from the remnants of Heather and Paige's visit including a new padlock on Heather's empty bedroom door, caused Lestrade to sigh with the overwhelming realisation of just what a bloody awful husband and father he was. He should just stick to investigating murders.

Nodding to the flat, Lestrade removed his suit jacket, throwing it over the side of the recliner and kicked off his own shoes. He looked around room, at Paige's crayons and the dishes in the kitchen sink. At Heather's cleats lying spike-up in the middle of the room. He really ought to clean up. Then next week they'd have a talk about cleaning up after themselves. Resolving to get around to cleaning later, he lifted the lid to his laptop, and instantly found the Webkinz website blinking on his screen. Evidentially Paige had forgotten to close the browser.

He chuckled silently to himself. It must have been quite a sight. A nearly fifty-year-old man with a Webkinz browser open on his computer. Honestly, that might be something he'd look for in a murder case. He shook his head and put the track pad over the favourites bar, changing the girlishly coloured sight to a more socially acceptable site of dark blue and white.

As he scrolled through a page of friends' poorly focused photographs of themselves and their friends, Lestrade found himself slightly annoyed. In all of these photos, the person in question was not alone. Hell, even _Anderson _just uploaded a photo of himself and his own wife – and Anderson was a dick.

He scrolled some more and saw a large photo of Heather in the middle of the screen. She had her arms around the shoulders of teammates, and under her foot was a black-and-white football. She looked happier than she ever did in real life. Under it was the caption, _We won! :-] _With this, Lestrade found himself feeling guilty for not making it to watch the game. Even if he hadn't known about it. He was certain Heather hadn't told him at all.

Was this going to be the way things were? When the girls were gone, just wasting time on social networks and news sites? Then again, he wouldn't have time soon enough. Soon enough there would be a case demanding his attention, and he'd be in his office until late at night. At least then he wouldn't have time to be lonely.

In the next moment, there came a sort of soft knocking on his front door. A bit confused, as he hadn't heard the buzzer to allow people in the building in the first place, Lestrade crossed the flat again in order to swing the door open.

Waiting for him, on the other size, was none other than Molly Hooper standing on the other side, with a small smile on her thin lips.

"Molly," He said, rather surprised. "Hullo."

"Hi, Greg," she said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a small card of some sort. "I believe this is yours."

Lestrade took the card, blinking at it. His Scotland Yard I.D. "What? Did I drop this on the way in or something?" He muttered, more to himself than to Molly.

Nevertheless, she came equipped with an answer. "Oh, no. Sherlock…well, he took it from you. He and John came down to the morgue today – Sherlock needed…things to experiment with. John asked if I could give this back to you."

"Surprised I missed it." Lestrade mumbled under his breath, putting the I.D back into his wallet.

"Well," Molly said, "I'll leave you to yourself."

As she turned to go, recent events caught up with Lestrade. "You look cold," he said abruptly. "Care to come in for some tea? Or something?"

It only took Molly a moment or two to consider, and then she nodded. "Thank you, that would be nice. Yeah."

At first, it was sufficiently awkward. Molly remained fairly silent as Lestrade moved around the kitchen, trying to find the kettle and tea leaves. She pulled on the sleeves of her jumper and looked around the room.

Lestrade put the kettle over the stovetop, and then went over to the recliner, whereupon he sat down with a sigh. It took him a few moments, for some reason, avoiding Molly's eyes. Somehow, it felt awkward. He didn't know why. He did not know Molly that well, and certainly wasn't sure how to branch out from small talk with her. Then again, small talk might be the perfect thing. When you get down to it, all he wanted was to take his mind off it all. Talking about the weather might just be the best thing to do.

Thus, they started in on the weather. Then they attempted discussing football (a difficult conversation as neither of them really followed sports) and the X-Factor (a dead conversation for the same reasons). Eventually the conversation turned to work, from this, they nearly got an hour worth of conversation, during which Lestrade took out left over containers of the Thai carry-away, and they wound up having dinner together without even realising it.

Then, in another strange conversational turn, they found himself listening about Molly's every day life.

"It's nice of you to invite me in," She said, "I haven't had dinner with a friend in…well, it really has been forever. It's nice."

"If you didn't turn down every sod asking you out for dinner, maybe you'd think less of my impromptu invitation." Lestrade waved his hand absentmindedly.

Molly raised her thin brows. "Oh, well…this is the first invitation for anything I've gotten in a while."

Sensing his own faux pas, Lestrade felt a warmth creeping up his neck. He managed to shrug slightly, "In that case, everyone else is missing on brilliant company."

With this, Molly turned quite scarlet. Lestrade had to keep from smiling at the effect of his words.

He found himself trying to store away the sight in his mind. She really looked rather pretty with her cheeks tinted, and that nervous smile.

Without warning, Lestrade found himself standing, inside his mind, on the walk outside that bakery. Watching Ella and that P.E teacher standing intimately in public, without a care. They had the façade of a perfect couple – of a perfect family. He couldn't help but think of what it was like – if Heather actually listened to him, if Paige didn't refuse to eat new things when he proposed to. It seemed as though, for that side of the family, everything was perfect. Something he could never live up to. He wasn't perfect at anything, and certainly not when it came to family or love.

A few moments later, Molly had leaned forward on the sofa, and suddenly her voice got soft. "Are you all right, Greg?"

"What?"

"You seem…sad, all of a sudden." Molly muttered, eyes darting around the room. "What's bothering you?"

Lestrade sighed. He really didn't like to talk about his problems. But, the sheer fact that a woman was prying to know was almost a comfort. Ella hadn't bothered to ask in years. So, he gave in and decided to attempt to vocalise to Molly Hooper.

"Just the divorce," He explained. "It's—difficult. I've been married forever, it seems. And with the girls…well, you see the lock Heather put on her door. I don't think any judge is going to let us keep the split custody arrangement we've got now."

Molly nodded slowly, and then for a moment, she choked on words. Then, she finally said, "For what it's worth, you're definitely concerned about them—you love them, I can tell. And judges will keep that in mind."

"But I've got a feeling Heather's going to be adamant against living with me, even part time." Lestrade absent-mindedly began rubbing his temples.

"She's thirteen," Molly said kindly, "Of course she will. She'll be adamant against living with her mum, too. Wait and see."

Lestrade paused, and after a beat, found the corners of his mouth turning upwards. "Thank you," he said.

Then, the strangest thing happened.

He just looked at her, and she back at him, but there was something strange to it. They'd looked at each other so many times before, but something was different this time. Some sort of subliminal connotation had been built, and Lestrade found it difficult to move his eyes.

Hers were brown. He'd never thought that was a particularly thrilling eye colour. Suddenly, he knew that was a wrong prejudgment.

"Oh, God," Molly said suddenly, looking down at her mobile, springing upwards. "Is it really that late? I've got to get back downstairs. Toby's probably ripped the sofa to shreds."

"Toby?"

"My cat." Molly explained, picking up the Styrofoam container she had been eating from, and threw it in the bin.

He walked her to the door, opening it for her. He thought he saw a small grin playing on her lips as he did so.

She walked through the threshold, but then turned back to him. "Greg," she said, biting the side of her lip. "Thank you. It was fun."

"Yeah," Lestrade said, trying to suppress some sort of tremor in his stomach as he watched her. "It was."

She nodded and began to walk down the stairs. He began to walk back into his flat, but then on a strange, new whim, dashed back towards the stairs.

"Molly?" He called down the case, seeing her turn around after being nearly halfway there.

"Yeah?"

Without warning, Lestrade found himself for a complete lack of words. He hadn't known why he'd gone after her in the first place. As far as things like this went, he was out of practice. Whatever 'this' was, anyway. "Er…"

Thankfully, Molly seemed to understand. "I start working a little later on Fridays," she said, compensating for his dumb silence. "Do you want me to show you a good place to get coffee on this part of town?"

"Yeah," Lestrade said nodding abruptly.

"All right," Molly smiled. "Half passed eight, tomorrow morning?"

"Sounds good."

Molly nodded back, and turned to continue down the staircase. "Night, Greg."

Lestrade found himself, yet again, watching her continue down the stairs. Once she was out of eyeshot, he realised that he was possibly the biggest idiot of all time, and slapped himself in the face to remind him.

Closing the door back behind him, he began to pick up the things Paige left behind.

What was he doing? Had he really just asked Molly Hooper to coffee? Well, technically, she had asked him. Though initially it was his idea. Either way. Wasn't it a bit soon to have interest in someone? The Decree nisi wouldn't be back for another six weeks yet, he still had to sign the petition. Besides. He was almost twenty years older, with too much baggage. A nice girl like Molly deserved a nice man who didn't come with so much _drama. _Was he interested in her? Was he just trying to distract himself? If it was the latter, he instantly felt guilty. It wasn't fair to her.

Yet, the fact that he couldn't get the way she bit her lip out of his mind, seemed to prove the former.

He sighed audibly to no one. Wasn't he getting a bit old for this?

* * *

**A/N: :\ Not sure how I feel about this one. Any thoughts? Seriously, guys. Review. **_**Please.**_

**Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, added to favourites, and followed my little story! **


	3. Lending Keys

**Chapter 3**

**Lending Keys**

* * *

Heather Lestrade sat on her bedspread, an open bottle of clear nail polish on the stand, the brush in one hand and a stubby cigarette in the other. The window was open, letting the wintry London smog mix with the smoke from her breath and from the dozen scented candles she was burning.

"Heather!" Ella called from the other side of the door, "Dinner's almost ready."

"No!" She called back out, taking a last drag from the fag and putting it into the makeshift ashtray she hid in the flowerpot outside her window. "Not hungry."

"Didn't give you the option, Heather." Ella called through the door. "You'll be out in fifteen. Or I'm coming in."

Heather rolled her eyes, but knew from the voice that her mother was serious. Without anything left to do, she shut the window, changed her clothes into something that smelled a little less like direct smoke (though since she was burning candles, the scent could still, realistically be there slightly). Then, she began to spray air-freshener and gargle some new brand of Dentist-approved mouthwash.

Someone knocked at the door again.

Hastily spitting into a mug by the side of her bed, Heather called out, "I'm _coming_, Mum. _Christ, _give me a minute!"

The door came open slightly. "'S just me," Paige said, inviting herself in, and plopping down on the bedspread. Her little nose crinkled slightly when the mixed scent of nail polish and tobacco mingled with the air freshener and candles.

Heather chuckled to herself. It was rather offensive to the olfactory senses, wasn't it? "What d'you want, Paige?"

"Mum's upset. Mr Browning's trying to comfort her, but she's not really hearing it. What'd you do?" Paige asked, settling onto the bed, perhaps to point out that she wasn't leaving. "'S cold in here."

Rolling her eyes, Heather shrugged and put the air freshener down. "I don't want to eat dinner with them."

"Why are you always so _mean?_" Paige asked, in her wide-eyed manner that seemed neither vindictive nor kind. Just as though it was a common question, like the weather. Then again, it was becoming a bit like the weather in the Lestrade family.

Heather snorted. "If you really wanna know, it's because I hate them both."

Paige blinked. "Both? Who? Mum and Mr Browning? Why?"

"No," Heather shook her head. "I can't give a shit about Mr Browning. Mum and Dad."

"Why?"

"Maybe because they're both selfish pricks." Heather said, feeling the emotion stirring around in her stomach, and plopping down beside her sister.

"How can Mum be a prick? She's a woman." Paige asked, with the most serious expression ever to grace her ten-year-old face.

Heather waved it off. "I'll explain when you're older."

"Oh. M'kay. Go on."

"I dunno, Paige."

"Yeah you do. Go on, it might help you."

Heather sighed audibly. "Okay. Let's start with Mum. Since we're at her house, it's only fitting to insult her first. She's trying to play us like fiddles. She wants us to go up to the judge and say, 'We hate _Dad_, let us stay with _Mummy_ all the time.' I don't even think she _wants _us all the time – she seemed to enjoy the time we were with Dad a bit _too _much. I think she's just doing it to spite him – since he's the one who left her. To prove he doesn't got a clue when it comes to us (he doesn't, but she doesn't need to shove it up his arse). Then, of course, there's Mr Browning."

"What about him?"

Heather stood again, and went to the window, watching the left over smoke from the fag curl and dance over the decaying flowers currently still potted. "Don't you think it's funny how, almost instantly, when Dad moved out, he came dancing into our lives, staying over, and all that?"

"He and Mummy are dating, though."

Heather could have growled. Was Paige being thick on purpose, or was that just a benefit of being ten? "People don't _date _this soon after a divorce, Paige. They've probably been shagging a long time before he came into our lives at home. And I suppose it makes sense as to why she made me stay in football. He is the assistant coach, after all."

"But, Dad and Mum just separated. They couldn't be shagging before Dad left."

Cocking a brow, Heather began to open her mouth, but promptly shut it. Paige wasn't in need of that particular reality check. Thus, she changed the subject, "And now for Dad!"

Paige, for once, said nothing. She had a feeling that her little sister would be a bit more on-board with this rant.

So, Heather sighed, and began pacing. "He left us. On Christmas. Left Mum to explain to us, left her to stumble around her family as to why he wasn't there anymore. He just ran. And then, oh yeah, let's remember that holiday he took, right? Didn't bother to take _us, _did he? Didn't even bother to tell us he was going. Not that that's surprising anyway, yeah? He was always in his damn office anyway. Can't talk about work. I'm not even entirely sure what he _does _every day. I don't even know the man—and that's part of why I hate him. He always runs. And now, what? Now that he and Mum are getting a _divorce_," She was livid now, all her angers she normally stored away at full force. "He wants to come waltzing in, expect us to understand or some other bullshit, have us stay in his flat for a few days and play 'Happy family' until we leave and he can go back to the murderers and the Yard. Well I'm not playing. He doesn't have the right. He had thirteen years to get to know me, and just starting now? Yeah, thanks but no thanks, Dad."

"Wow." Paige said after a moment, causing her older sister to start a bit. Perhaps she had forgotten that her younger sister was there. "So, what're you going to tell the judge?"

"No idea," Heather said. "Hate him, can't stand to be in the same house with her. I suppose I'll just go where you go, kid."

Paige smiled a bit, and held out her hand, Heather took it, whereupon the commenced clapping them together and interlocking fingers with a few snaps and extra flourishes of the wrist, finishing the secret handshake they'd created when they were much younger.

"Y'know," Paige said after they were through, crossing the bedroom door to head out for dinner. "That really is rather lame."

* * *

Molly had just finished with the last body of her afternoon shift. She'd woken up late that morning, and was not looking forward to going up to the cafeteria for her dinner break, and considered just working through it. However, she no sooner had she zipped the body-bag of the middle-aged man and washed her hands, than her mobile began to ring and vibrate in her pocket. Quickly fumbling to dry her hands, Molly lifted it up to her ear. "Hullo?"

"'Ey, Molls."

In spite of herself, Molly found herself grinning. "Greg. What's going on?"

"Decided to get coffee over dinner. I was wondering if you wanted me to pick something up?"

"Oh, you really don't have to – "

In that moment, the door to the morgue swung open, and there was Greg on the other side, with a steaming Styrofoam cup in either hand. "I know," he said, "Just felt like it. It's decaf, don't worry."

Molly smiled at the gesture. Greg was, honestly, rather sweet. And he could be a bit of a flirt if he felt like it. She wasn't even sure exactly as to what kind of relationship was starting up. They had breakfast at least once a week, emailed and texted near to constantly. When the girls weren't at his place, they'd sometimes watch films in the evenings; really awful American ones (the last one, if she recalled correctly had been "The Blair Witch Project") that were so stupid they'd wind up practically on the floor laughing. It might have been platonic, if not for a few subtle hints here and there. A hand on her shoulder a bit too long, laughing just a little too loud, smiling a little too long, both of them had been caught more than once staring where they shouldn't be. But, still, it was nice. Nice to have a friend, an attractive one at that, who seemed engaged when she talked.

Nice as it was, Molly still had her reservations.

Age differences almost always put her off. Seeing a middle-aged man with some twenty-something often gave the unseemly impression of her being in the relationship for stability and money, and him being there for sex, and neither of which ever inspired a Nicholas Sparks novel. Not that she really wanted that—aw, hell, to a degree, of course she did. Nearly every woman wanted that in some way, shape, or form. But, that was getting off topic.

Not only was there the age difference, but the complication with his time. Both of their time, really. Though Molly's wasn't spread nearly as thin. She had work, and because the curse of being an introvert caused her friends to be in the single digits, a few friends, and time to have a hobby or two. But Greg. Greg was either in his office, on the site of some terrifying murder, juggling his time with the girls (or attempting to), or filing for something in the divorce court. And then a few times a week he'd set aside some time for Molly. She hated to admit how nice it felt to have someone make time for her – God knows he didn't have it just lying around.

Then, of course, the girls. Molly had only met Heather and Paige in passing, on the stairs, when she was leaving as they were coming in. Heather and her mother were having a bit of a screaming match, fit with a rather colourful vocabulary for a thirteen-year-old to have and a ten-year-old to hear. Molly easily understood that Greg had his hands full with them. And, if she were to become a more permanent part of his life (assuming he even wanted it, she slowed herself down), it might be difficult getting the girls not to hate her.

That, of course, was assuming that whatever it was with Greg was anymore than tension-filled friendship.

"You all right, Molls?" Greg asked, grinning crookedly, still holding out the Styrofoam cup to her.

She blushed. "Huh? Oh, yeah. Yeah. Absolutely fine. Thanks, Greg, thanks."

He paused, a funny little grin playing on his lips. Then he coughed to bring them both back to reality. "So, dinner tonight?"

Molly could have gasped. She'd almost forgotten completely. Not that she had interfering plans or anything, but she couldn't believe that she'd forget that. "Yeah."

It was partially due to Paige's apparent distain for takeaway and partially to rid the whole family of the monotony of sandwiches, that Greg had asked Molly if he could borrow a cookbook a few months ago. That, somehow, evolved into something akin to cooking lessons. That night, the decided culinary project before the girls came was chicken fettuccini. A new endeavor to them both.

The ironic thing of their cooking lessons remained that Molly was not much better of a chef than he was. She'd managed the last nine years out of uni on sandwiches, cheap salads, and cafeteria food from Bart's. Thus, by and large, they learned together. Within the last month Molly had learned to make a rather nice rice and vegetable mix and Greg could manage a digestible soup from scratch.

Molly sipped her coffee lightly, and then looked up to Greg. "So…your day's all right?"

Greg nodded. "Yeah, same thing as lately. Bloody paperwork – "

In that moment, his mobile rang loudly. He sighed, evidentially annoyed, and looked at the screen, brows shooting up.

"Spoke too soon," He said. "I have to go. Chief Superintendent called for some kind of impromptu meeting. "

Molly nodded understandingly. It must be hard for him to have to leave so quickly at the drop of a hat. She absently wondered if he ever was called out during more amorous activities, and instantly blushed at the thought.

Just as he began to press on the door, Greg shot back slightly. "Oh, shit."

"What's wrong?"

He swiped a hand through his silvery hair, he shook his head. "The girls. I doubt I'll be home in time. Ella's never going to let me live this down."

Molly bit her lip. "Well, if you aren't home, I could always just buzz them in."

Greg considered this, and then smiled slightly. "That's brilliant, actually. D'you think you could let them into my flat?"

Molly nodded, and he handed her a key.

He stood there for a minute, torso slightly swaying back and forth, neck tilting slightly, as though he was thinking about doing something. Then he shook his head, abruptly. "Well, I have to go. Now. Ta, Molly."

She waved as he left the morgue, suddenly feeling quite lonely.

* * *

Molly sat in her own flat, legs up on the ottoman, reading a book with her striped Siberian, Toby, sleeping peacefully in a shoebox.

Of course, she couldn't focus on reading, not really anyway. Greg hadn't come back, and it was about time for the girls to come. He'd apparently texted Ella to let her know to buzz in at Molly's flat, and that she'd let them into his. She cast a wayward glance at the key Greg had leant her, sitting purposelessly next to the lamp. She'd been hoping he would be back by then. It'd mean she wouldn't have to let Ella, Heather, and Paige into Greg's flat. For some reason, it rendered her rather nervous. She knew it was her idea – but _still. _It felt odd.

Just as she turned absentmindedly to chapter 24 (with absolutely no idea what happened in the previous chapter), the buzzer sounded down from the street.

She jumped up, slamming her shin into the ottoman. Cursing inwardly, she hopped over to the door.

"Yeah?" Molly asked into the speaker, trying not to wince.

"Yeah…erm," Came the voice on the other end. "This is Ella Lestrade…Greg's wife? Well, ex-wife."

"Oh, yeah." Molly said, trying to sound cheerful. "He told me to let you in. I'll unlock the door for you."

She buzzed them in, and threw on a pair of shoes, heading up to the next floor to Greg's flat, feeling rather odd. It wasn't until she was turning the key in the lock that she realised why. She hadn't officially met Greg's family yet, if one discounted the passing experience in the hall. Why that would make her _nervous, _she had no idea, though she definitely recognised the feeling of nerves in her chest.

Less than a minute later, there came an abrupt knocking at the flat door. Molly answered, having been standing right inside for the extent of her time there.

Ella Lestrade, Molly noted, was rather pretty. She had big eyes, thick black hair made up prettily without a streak of gray. She didn't have many wrinkles, either. Though, Molly tried to comfort herself, she thought she remembered Greg complaining Botox bills _he _had to pay for. But, still, she appeared pretty, and sophisticated. And, as for physical assets, she definitely had more than Molly ever dreamed of having.

Though, that really oughtn't to bother her.

Ella Lestrade twisted her face, in a faux sympathy. "Sorry he made you let us up like this."

"Oh," Molly smiled, waving a hand, and opening the door more to let Greg's company in. "It's fine."

Ella led the way, followed by Heather – long black hair like her mum, big dark eyes like her father, and an enormous set of freckles that seemed to be all her own. She instantly burst into her own room, using a key to unlock it from the outside, and slamming the door with a similar locking click afterwards. After that, clutching to her rucksack as though meeting a new face in her dad's flat was too much to handle, came Paige. She had large gray eyes, brown hair, and Molly thought it worth noting, Greg's nose.

"Well," Molly said, now that the whole company was inside. "I suppose I won't impose. I don't know when he'll be back. But, if you need to leave, I'll be just downstairs…the girls can call if…if there's an emergency…"

Ella sighed, "Same old Greg, then."

"Sorry?" Molly asked, with a confused gurgle in her voice.

"You haven't noticed?" Ella said offhandedly.

Molly shrugged, and turned to leave.

"I don't want to pry," Ella said suddenly, interrupting Molly's exit. "Ms…?"

"Hooper."

"Right. Sorry. Well, as I said, I don't want to pry, but I have to ask—since it affects my girls. Are you and Greg…" She paused, eyes sliding over to Paige, and then back to Molly. "_Together_?"

Molly was able to make the connection. Ella meant, _Are you shagging him? _

"No." Molly said definitely. "I—well, we're…we're frien—neighbors."

"All right," Ella nodded. "Just, fair warning, I haven't known Greg to be very good at being platonic."

_Apparently you aren't either, _Molly thought in a moment of inward boldness. Instead, she shrugged and said, "Oh…well, I sincerely doubt he'd be interested in someone like me."

* * *

**A/N: Because Heather needed explaining. **

**Thanks for all the reviews, alerts, and favourites! Feel free to do the first as much as you want, and the last two if you haven't already. :] They make my night!**


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